


Make Me a Match

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Follower Appreciation [7]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hank Big, M/M, Match Maker AU, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Quoting RomComs, Romance, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 17:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Niles resists the urge to make a joke about Connor’sclients. Most of them are middle-aged saps baffled by the online dating trend who keep using Grindr instead of Tinder or vice versa. He’s fairly certain the app’s algorithm could solve most of their dating woes if they could just find the right platform, “Let me guess: He’s a man.”“Well, yes,” Connor says in mild irritation, “But that’s not the problem, it’s—,”“I’ll guess again: Oh, no. He’s cute.” Connor burying his face in his hands is all the answer Niles needs.__Connor is a matchmaker and Hank is one of his new clients trying to get back into the dating game. Connor sends him on intentionally bad dates for the express purpose of seeing him in his office again and to buy himself some time on how to deal with his unprofessional feelings for his new client.Inspired by an idea from a friend on Twitter. I took it, ran with it, and lost my mind for ~8K words. Oops.





	Make Me a Match

Connor has never been late in his life. He wants to rip off his watch as the unease of anxiety gnaws away at his wrist. His phone calendar pings at him, warning him of his impending meeting with a new client.

“I know, ok? I know!” He practically shouts it at the notification, wishing he could leap ahead of the long stretch of traffic looming ahead of him. His only hopeful thought is that Mr. Anderson is also trapped somewhere in this mess rather than standing idle outside Connor’s office door.

Thirty minutes later, his heart sinks when he spots a tall figure squinting at the sign hanging above his window.

_Couples by Connor  
An Arkait Enterprise_

Connor hated the sign, but his family had insisted on alliteration. He had wanted to point out few of them had successful relationships and had no business offering their opinions, but he bit his tongue and now here he is with the stupid sign.

He hustles across the parking lot, only slowing when he thinks the man might be close enough to hear his frantic footsteps.

“Mr. Anderson!” He calls out cheerily, trying to get his rapid breathing from his near-sprint under control, “Good morning, I’m Connor.”

When he gets near enough to offer his hand, he has to resist the urge to stare. Most of Connor’s clients struggle in some way—insecurities in their appearance, personality, and capability as a partner the most common culprits of their loneliness. Nothing about this man says insecure.

Still, he must be here for a reason. Connor extends his hand and it nearly vanishes beneath Hank’s grip. “Call me Hank,” he offers with a smile, an attractive little gap peeking out between his front teeth in a friendly _hello_.

Connor unlocks the door and ushers him into his office, “Have a seat. Pick any chair you like; they’re all comfortable. I promise.” He holds up his hand like a boy scout before turning to busy himself with paperwork to hide his flushing face. Cursing his tardiness, he tries to sweep away his verbal blundering under the guise of action.

“Did you have a chance to fill out the form I emailed you?” Connor asks knowing full well the man didn’t. He would’ve received an email notification if he had. Even so, Connor liked to hear the excuses people gave. It told him a lot about their personality. Some confess to not knowing how to answer many of the questions. Others suffered from the paralysis of moving forward with dating while a select few were just lazy.

“I started it,” Hank begins in his defense. “But it got a little…intense. I wasn’t sure how to answer.”

Connor nods and turns to see he selected the most Spartan of chairs his office possessed. It was a cheap trick but one that hadn’t failed him yet. Surrounded by plush chairs, Hank chose the only one with no padding or arms. Connor surmises that Hank isn’t a man that indulges in creature comforts. Either that or he outright denies himself what he considers to be luxuries.

“No worries, Hank. We can go over it together. You don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable, but I do need to stress honesty. Don’t hold back because you think yours might be an unpopular opinion. I can’t match you if you’re not showing me the real you.”

Hank seems less than enthused about going over the paperwork in person. However, much like a teacher would with a student, Connor isn’t going to let his client get away with not doing his homework. Connor gives him his best reassuring smile and the man flushes and looks away. _He’s sweet_ Connor makes a mental note to keep Hank away from his rougher clients.

“We’ll start with the easy things,” Connor pulls a lurid purple pen from his drawer and taps it against his clipboard. “Tell me about where you went to school.”

They work through the blacks and whites of Hank’s past: His Alma Mater, his religious background, and his hobbies. Connor moves onto his family next, the first of the topics that usually proves sticky for his clients.

When Hank stumbles over the open-ended question, Connor circles around his desk to take a chair closer to him. In his experience, clients prefer for him to be closer when they’re trying to discuss difficult topics. Some have actually leaned on him before.

“I know family can be a difficult topic. Many of my clients start with the strongest relationships they have.”

Hank doesn’t seem sure of what to do with his hands. He ends up gripping his seat before muttering, “That’d be my sister, I guess.”

When Hank doesn’t elaborate, Connor prods him along, “Tell me about her; what makes that bond important to you?”

Hank wanders from memory to memory. Connor doesn’t usually let clients get off track like this, but Hank’s stories are funny and endearing. From the sounds of it, Hank spent most of his youth in trouble after taking the fall for his sister’s mischievous antics.

“She was a terror, but you gotta love her. She’s toned down now that we’re older than dirt.” Connor tries to conceal the frown itching at the corners of his mouth, but he’s always had an honest face.

“I wouldn’t write yourself off just yet. I have plenty of clients your age and older, Hank. Love isn’t an exception meant only for those with a twenty or a thirty at the start of their age.”

Hank cracks an amused grin, “That’s sweet and all, but you gotta be, what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Get back to me in another decade or so when you’re staring down the barrel of forty. I’m looking at fifty myself.” Hank laughs easily, and Connor knows he means it as a joke.

He’s aware he looks young for his age, but no one’s guessed him to be less than thirty in a while, “I hate to disappoint you, Hank, but I’m a good deal closer to forty than you’re giving me credit for. I’ll be thirty-four at the end of the month.”

He enjoys Hank’s stunned silence and openly laughs when he states matter-of-factly, “Bull. Shit.”

Connor tries to get the conversation back on track, but Hank seems more interested in learning about Connor than answering Connor’s questions. Glancing at the clock, Connor realizes they’re already fifteen minutes past Hank’s allotted appointment. Grimacing at the clipboard, he stands to set it on his desk.

“My apologies Hank, but I have another client arriving soon. We’ll need to make another appointment to finish out this questionnaire.” He pauses before adding, “Unless, of course, you feel more comfortable about filling it out on your own now.”

Hank shakes his head and Connor feels a tight knot he didn’t know existed loosen in his chest, “Nah. It’s easier telling it to you than trying to work it out on a computer screen.”

Connor smiles and Hank looks anywhere but at his face, “How’s next week? Same time?”

Hank visibly startles and finally meets Connor’s eyes, “Wanted to see you sooner than that.” Before Connor can process that admission, Hank clears his throat, “Uh, ya know. To get started on this dating thing sooner.”

Connor schools his face into an understanding expression, “Of course, Hank. I know how hard it is being lonely.”

Hank stares at him incredulously, “Are you telling me the love doctor doesn’t have a gir…a bo…a person?” Hank stumbles, uncertain of who Connor may or may not be dating.

Connor gives him a wry smile, “Have you ever noticed how people who give really good advice can’t seem to apply it to their own life? It’s a bit like that. I assure you, I’m quite good at what I do—for other people. My success rate is well above ninety percent.”

Hank scratches at the back of his head, “Heh. Guess we have something in common after all.”

Connor tries to contain his surprise at the comment, he’s seen Hank’s answers and knows they have a great deal in common, and his mouth speaks the words before his brain can lock them away, “And what’s that?”

“We can’t seem to find someone to love us.” Connor’s heart throbs a small pulse of hurt for the man in front of him. They’ve barely scratched the surface—Connor needs information, _a lot_ more information, to even begin pairing him with someone. Looking at the data he does have, he says kindly, “We have a lot more in common than you give us credit for.”

He checks his calendar while Hank gapes at him, looking for any earlier openings, “I know it’s a bit last minute, but I have an opening tomorrow evening. I don’t usually take appointments after six, but this client was a special case. She had to cancel because she’s going on a third date.” Connor smiles to himself, glad to see another happy client.

“That works for me. I get off my shift around five. Should give me time to change and meet you here.”

Curiosity getting the best of him, Connor delays Hank’s departure, “We didn’t get to that part of the survey yet; what do you do for a living, Hank?”

“Oh, right,” Hank hesitates as if he’s not sure he wants to say. “I’m a cop; I work at the DPD.” A soft _Oh_ crosses Connor’s lips and Hank continues on hastily, “I know it makes alotta people uncomfortable. Hope it doesn’t make your job too hard.”

Realizing Hank thinks his job is a mark against him, Connor rushes to reassure him, “No, no. It won’t be an issue. See you tomorrow, Hank.”

Connor moves to open the door for Hank when his large hand reaches out to rest on Connor’s forearm, “I got it.”

Connor stares at the thick fingers gripping near his wrist before dropping his hand, “Of—of course.” Hank gives him a two-fingered salute and makes his way to his car. Connor watches him go until he remembers he needs to get the files ready for his next appointment.

Connor finds himself distracted, barely able to pay attention to his last client of the day. He takes perfunctory notes while thoughts of Hank consume his attention. He gets like this with new clients, he knows, but Hank is proving more distracting than most.

Their next meeting gives him enough information to set up an initial, informal date. Hank tells him more about his hobbies and a bit about his values, although he snorts at that line of questioning. He learns about Hank’s deal breakers and underlines _no kids_ several times.

Hank seems oddly reluctant to talk about why, but Connor puts it a pin in it for now, “Tell me more about what you want out of a relationship and what you’d prefer to avoid. If it’s alright, I’d like to know more about your past relationships—what you liked and didn’t like. You can be as specific or vague as you want.”

“Pass,” is Hank’s immediate answer and Connor frowns. He’s even more reluctant to discuss this topic than that of children.

“Hank, I can’t do my job well if I’m taking on the task half-blind.” Hank’s posture goes rigid like that of a child ready to dig in his heels. Connor knows better than to press for now, “Well, I have enough to get started. I can set you up with something this weekend if you’re available.”

Despite Hank’s claims to want to get back into the dating game, he’s showing obvious signs of reluctance. Connor leans forward, clasping his hands in his lap, “It’s normal to be nervous. If this weekend doesn’t work for you, I can compare schedules and find a weeknight for a low-key evening encounter.”

Hank snorts at Connor’s use of _encounter_ , “Makes it sound like I’m going to an alien abduction instead of a dinner.” Connor gives him a small smile and Hank relents, “Yeah, I’m free this weekend.”

Connor talks him through the logistics and tries to put his mind at ease, “Think of the first date as training wheels for a new bike. You know how to ride one, but you might need a little help adjusting after so long off the seat.”

Hank laughs openly and claps Connor on the back. He staggers more in surprise at the contact than the weight of it, “Kid, you are something else. _Training wheels_ , Christ.”

“At any rate,” Connor mutters while adjusting his tie, “We can meet again at your convenience to discuss the date. We can also arrange a conference call if you feel the profile I’m building on you only needs some minor tweaking.”

Hank agrees to meet again on Monday and nervousness starts to prowl in Connor’s guts from the moment he leaves his office. He knows the first date is always a test run and doesn’t often pan out. It’s mostly a litmus test for Connor to check certain assumptions he makes as well as to test how well clients know themselves. More often than not, Connor has to make recommendations the clients would never have thought of on their own.

Still, something nags. He makes it through the weekend without texting Hank to ask for an update. Most of his clients contact him one way or another after a date. Connor doesn’t know how to interpret the radio silence.

By Monday, Connor is vibrating with anticipation. Hank’s appointment isn’t until four, but he sees a familiar car pull into the parking lot at half past two. After twenty minutes, he goes to the window for a better look. He can’t see Hank’s face at this angle, but he can see the tense line of his torso and the clench of his hands on the wheel.

“Oh, dear,” Connor murmurs, knowing with absolute certainty that the date went poorly. In his fervor to address the problem, he forgets his coat hanging by the front door. It’s a windy spring afternoon, and the chill of winter isn’t ready to relinquish its grip on Detroit just yet. Wrapping an arm around his torso for warmth, Connor taps on the glass of Hank’s window.

Hank doesn’t move and Connor raps his knuckles a little more firmly against the glass even though it’s painfully obvious Hank must’ve heard him the first time. Hank’s head turns slowly as if through tar. He meets Connor’s gaze and seems surprised to see him there. He opens the car door and tries to step out while still buckled into the seat.

Connor’s hands fly up on instinct, but Hank corrects himself without assistance. Pulling free from the seat belt, he surges up to his full height. He looks lost and confused. After a moment, red-rimmed blue eyes connect with concerned brown ones. “Didn’t mean t’actually comes here,” he admits at last. “Just thought I’d call.”

Connor leans in slightly to assess Hank’s appearance better. He’s unshaven and his clothes look rumpled as if he slept in them. He’s unkempt in a way he’s not used to and does not like, “Have you been drinking?”

“No,” his voice is quiet and Connor only smells the vague scent of coffee on his breath. Before he can pull back, Hank lurches into him at stark odds with his claims of sobriety. It takes Connor several seconds to recognize the hug for what it is. Hank’s arms hang limply, but his head is bowed. Connor lifts his arms slowly in a loose embrace and Hank exhales a shuddering breath.

“Let’s get inside,” Connor says at last, feeling the cold sink into his bones despite Hank’s heat pressing against him. Hank nods and pulls away, following at Connor’s heels.

Before Connor can ask questions to make heads or tails of what’s going on, Hank starts talking in the general direction of his desk, “Some things I need to tell you. I know I said no kids, but—,” he breaks off in a racking cough that could easily be meant to conceal a crack in his composure. “The people you set me up with—they can’t hate kids, ok?”

Connor blinks at him, “I don’t typically take on clients that have cruel things to say about children, Hank.”

Hank waves him off and tries to explain, “No, I mean…I have a kid. A son. Date went a bit berserk when he realized it.”

Connor resists the urge to pinch his nose while swallowing a sigh trying to crawl up his throat. This is why he prefers to complete a client’s profile before trying to match them. “Right, ok. That’s important and helpful information.”

Connor hesitates on his next question. He does actually need to know for the sake of doing Hank justice on his next date, but he can’t help but feel like he’s prying at an obvious wound with a rusty crowbar, “Was there a Mrs. Anderson?”

Hank’s nostrils flare and Connor’s quick to backpedal, “I only ask because it’s helpful to know certain traits you like and which to avoid.”

They spend the next hour filling in the gaps on Hank’s profile. Some questions take longer to answer than others do. By the end of it, Connor learns Hank is divorced with a son he rarely gets to see. “He was supposed to come visit for spring break,” he offers by way of explanation for his behavior. “Sharon—my ex—decided to schedule a tonsillectomy that week so he won’t have to miss any school. He’s sick all the time, I get it, but…” Hank breaks off muttering about _coulda waited_ and _summer_. “She texted me about it this morning.”

Connor also learns Hank’s been on a non-stop stakeout for the past 20 hours and is on the verge of collapse. He bustles about making coffee while Hank issues apologies for being dramatic and trying to fall on him after getting out of the car, “It’s fine, Hank. I don’t mind. Clients hug me all the time. It comes with the territory.”

Hank gives him an unreadable look and his fingers brush over Connor’s for a touch too long when the mug exchanges hands. “Thanks,” he finally mutters before taking a sip of coffee. “Oh, this is way better than the shit they have at the station.”

While Hank sips at his coffee mug, Connor has him sit at his computer and fill in some preferences regarding dates, “You can be as specific or open-ended as you want. It just helps me match you with someone else with similar interests.” Connor leans forward to navigate to the survey section he’s looking for and his chest presses briefly against Hank’s back. He quashes the warm flush that rolls over him, trying to focus on the task.

He wraps up by asking Hank some general personality questions, trying to end the overly long meeting with some lighthearted inquiries. Hank skirts many of them, not wanting to say aloud what he likes and doesn’t like.

“Christ, Connor. This is a bit personal. And awkward,” he grumbles when Connor presses him for details on body types.

“Tell you what,” Connor rises to grab his iPad before handing it to Hank. “This app will show you a series of people of various genders, body types, facial features, ages, races—everything really. You click the ones that appeal most to you and I can gather what I need to know from that.”

Hank spends the next fifteen minutes tapping on the screen. Connor does his best not to watch him. Most clients hate it and Connor doesn’t want them to be uncomfortable. Still, he can’t help but smile at Hank’s small frown of concentration or the way he worries at his lips with his teeth. Hastily looking away when Hank rises to hand him back the tablet, he can’t help but wonder if Hank noticed him watching.

When he goes to take his leave, Connor waves, “Get some sleep, Hank. You’ll want to be fresh-faced for your next date.”

Hank barks out a laugh, “Sorry to disappoint. This is just my face.”

“Well, it’s a good one,” Connor quips back. Before Hank can react, he continues, “I have several profiles that I think will match better than the first attempt. How’s Wednesday for you?” When Hank agrees to a time, Connor bids him farewell and heads back inside to run the new data Hank supplied.

He pulls from the women first, the program generating a general appearance based on pictures Hank selected. It’s crude, but it provides some guidelines for Connor to work with. He clicks over to Hank’s profile and immediately removes certain names from his _Possibles_ list while adding others he hadn’t considered. “She’ll do nicely,” Connor mutters to himself with a smile when he finds a profile that matches well with Hank.

Before reaching out to her to arrange the date, he decides to run the male simulator as well. Due diligence and all that, he tells himself. It takes considerably longer for the program to finish the male mockup, something Connor’s come to associate with more data to process.

He’s on the verge of emailing the woman after the system takes several minutes longer than he anticipated when it finally produces an image. Clicking back to the screen, Connor’s pulse skips several beats. It takes his consciousness several minutes to ascertain what his subconscious began screaming about the moment he laid eyes on the final image.

The man looking back at him is slender and fair. He’s dark haired and dark eyed. The program even gave him freckles.

“Oh, fuck,” it comes out a whisper and Connor reaches up to press his fingers against the screen.

Weakly, he deletes every match from Hank’s profile. Feeling every bit like a slimy creature one might find under a rock, he dials the number of a woman he knows Hank is sure to hate. 

His resolve to say nothing last less than a day. Canceling his Monday appointments, he finds himself outside the stark white building boasting the offices of _Manfred Family Law_ , _S. Lambert Legal Services_ , and _Arkait Behavioral Health_.

Connor greets the receptionist with ill-concealed panic, “Hi, Kara. Is he available?”

She glances at the monitor, not bothering to ask for details. She’s worked with Niles for long enough to know who Connor is and that he won’t leave without seeing his brother, “His next appointment won’t be here for about ten minutes. He’s new so you’ll have about twenty in total while he fills out some forms.”

Connor gives her a thumbs up in thank as she buzzes him through. He doesn’t bother knocking or announcing himself. Instead, he throws himself in a dramatic heap on the chaise lounge in Niles’ office, “I’m doomed.”

Niles surveys him critically over the rims of his glasses, “Connor, I can’t deal with whatever crisis you’re having today. Some of us have actual clients to help. I have an opening tomorrow at thre—,”

Connor bolts upright on the couch, “I _help_ people, Niles.” Niles makes a _sure, sure_ gesture with his hands and Connor’s scowl deepens, “I do! I help them find love. In fact, I have an excellent candidate for you if you’d let m—,”

“Connor, no,” Niles thumbs through files without looking at his brother. He already knows where this is headed.

“But he’s perfect for you.”

Niles snorts audibly, “That’s what you said about the alchemist.”

“That disaster breakup was entirely your fault.” Connor pauses before adding, “This one works in a morgue.” Although Niles declines to respond, Connor can see the interested quirk of his mouth. Still, he has bigger problems than rectifying his perpetually single, younger brother’s solitary existence.

When he doesn’t move from the couch, Niles heaves a much put upon sigh, “Fine. One of us may as well use our psychiatry degree today. Even if dispensing professional aid to a family member is, you know, unethical.” Niles glances down at his watch while Connor sputters indignantly, “You have ten minutes until my next client arrives. He’s new and I cannot wait to dig in his brain.”

Connor shudders at Niles’ grotesque word choice for psychoanalyzing the extreme cases that walk across his threshold, “It’s my latest client.”

Niles resists the urge to make a joke about Connor’s _clients_. Most of them are middle-aged saps baffled by the online dating trend who keep using Grindr instead of Tinder or vice versa. He’s fairly certain the app’s algorithm could solve most of their dating woes if they could just find the right platform, “Let me guess: He’s a man.”

“Well, yes,” Connor says in mild irritation, “But that’s not the problem, it’s—,”

“I’ll guess again: Oh, no. He’s cute.” Connor burying his face in his hands is all the answer Niles needs.

“It gets worse,” Connor groans into his hands.

“How can it—,”

Connor interrupts, voice directed to the floor, “He’s a police officer.”

A bit of sympathy sneaks into Niles’ heart. _Uniform_ he thinks quietly. Connor’s always had a thing for men in uniform. Still, it’s not like this is an insurmountable problem, “Really, Connor. It’s simple. Maintain a professional distance, set him up on a date like you always do, file him away in your spank bank, and move on before you sacrifice your integrity.”

“I already tried that,” Connor whines into his hands.

Niles peers at him suspiciously, “What do you mean _tried_?”

Connor colors hotly and rushes through his explanation, “I set him up with a date, ok? I did! But you know the first ones are always kinda eh. He told me about his family, his interests—he filled out all the forms. I knew I liked him, but I kept my distance. I had no real reason, no hard proof, that he thought of me that way. Then I had him use the model simulator. You know the one.”

Niles nods at him, his mouth a thin line of disapproval at how Connor makes his living, “Don’t make that face at me, you know it’s a helpful tool.”

“If you mean creepy, then, yes, I agree. Your clients build a fantasy date and then you try to find one that fits the mold. It’s bizarre.” Not looking in Connor’s direction, he misses the rude gesture his brother makes at him.

“If you call results _bizarre_. Do you know how many people I’ve helped find each other? Sixteen marriage last year alone! My first clients are approaching their seventh wedding anni—,” Niles holds up his hand.

“I understand that you are passionate about it even if I do not understand the _it_ itself. Back to your problem.”

“Right, well I had him use the program and the results…The man was…,” Connor fades off, fretting at his sleeve.

“The man was what, Connor?” Niles prompts with a sigh, glancing at his watch.

“It was _me_. My face, my build—he even had freckles,” Connor’s eyes seem to be begging Niles to come to the same conclusion as his brother.

Exhaling heavily, Niles gears up to let Connor down gently, “Connor, it’s a program; a _machine_. Machines can’t predict love.” Connor mutters about biased brothers who don’t believe in modern romance, but he drops the subject in favor of the bigger problem.

“I’m fairly certain I’m sabotaging him,” Connor lets the fact that he’s doing it on purpose go unsaid. There is only so much self-loathing he can unpack in ten minutes with Niles.

“Color me unsurprised,” Niles snarks as he shoos Connor off his couch. “You have five more minutes.”

“He has his second date tonight and I’m pretty sure it’s going to bomb.”

“And why is that?” Niles asks before his mouth draws into a thin, grim line.

“Because it’s with a horrid woman that I really should drop as a client.” Connor crosses his arms over his torso defensively.

Niles pinches at the bridge of his nose, “Oh, good grief, Connor.”

“Niles, every time he walks back into my office it’s like the sun shines a little brighter. He stays well past his allotted appointments and I _let_ him. You know me, I’m—,”

“An absolute lunatic about schedules, I know,” Niles motions at Connor to continue while tapping at his watch.

“He touches me even though I’ve never done more than shake his hand. Oh my god, Niles. His hands. I have to tell you about—,”

“No, you really don’t. Connor, I’ve given you my professional opinion. Either do your job or drop him as a client and come clean. Those are your options.”

Connor groans and tilts his head back into the wall with a _thwump_ , “I can’t. He’ll hate me. He’s spent so much money already between the dates and my hourly rates and—,”

“And the longer you wait, the worse it will be.” Connor closes his eyes and shakes his head, but Niles knows he sees the logic. Connor opens his mouth to speak when a jaunty knock at the door interrupts him.

“That will be my three o’clock. Get out.” Niles pushes at Connor’s back, ignoring his protests, “If you haven’t figured out your dilemma by next week, make an appointment like every other maniac I see.”

“That’s not a nice way to talk about your patients,” Connor’s mouth arcs down in disapproval.

“I was talking about our family,” Connor makes an _Ahh_ sound of understanding and nods. The Arkaits were all a bit eccentric.

When he opens the door to take his leave, he stops abruptly halfway out the door, “Gavin! I didn’t expect to see you until Thursday.”

Niles’ head swivels on his neck, unamused that more of his life is overlapping with his brother’s, “You two know each other?”

“Oh, yes,” Connor’s eyes take on a feline gleam and Niles can all but predict his next words, “Gavin is also a client of mine.”

“Yeah, two Arkaits in one week. Lucky me,” Gavin mutters, “Not to be a dick, but he charges as much as you do. I have to finish this stupid counseling before I’m allowed back at work.” Gavin stalks in and Connor points and mouths behind his back _morgue_.

Three days pass before Niles caves and calls Connor, “I hate you; I hope you know that.”

Pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear, Connor grins, “You _do_ like him! I knew you would. He’s awful.” Connor pokes and prods for more information, but Niles remains characteristically tight-lipped.

“You’re a hypocrite, you know,” Connor mumbles around a couple of grapes, closing the refrigerator door with a bump of his hip.

“His tenure as my client is temporary, Connor. He’ll go back to the police station by the end of the month and continue playing with the dead bodies.”

Connor makes a _yuck_ face, “God, you two deserve each other.”

“What can I say, I know what I like. So what about you? Did you tell the bear the truth yet?” Connor chokes and hastily swallows his mouthful of fruit.

“I never once described his build to you,” he splutters in indignation.

Niles sighs heavily enough to blow out a candle, “Connor, you have a type and that type is at least three times your size.”

Connor protests weakly but ultimately gives up the pretense, “No, I haven’t told him. He came by yesterday and came very close to accusing me of being a charlatan. I assured him the _harpy shrew_ , as he called her, bamboozled me with charm and grace before transforming into a monster on their date.”

“So more lying then. That’s the route you’re taking,” Niles deadpans while putting Connor on speaker to read a new text. “Oh, dear.”

“What?” Connor snaps in irritation.

“It’s Gavin. He’s sent me a text.”

Connor tries to convey as much of his rolling eyes in his tone as possible when he responds, “You _are_ his _shrink_ , Ni.”

“I should have been more specific,” Niles mutters, ignoring Connor’s waspish voice. “He sent me a picture.”

Connor groans, “A dick pic? Really? I told him to stop doing that.”

“No, no. Think a little more north.”

Running a hand down his face, Connor speaks more to the world at large than to his brother directly, “How many times do I have to—No, you know what? I don’t care. He can send his ab photos to whomever he wants. Is it the one with the teeth or the one with the tongue?”

“You’ve seen his abs too then I take it?” Niles teases.

Horrified, Connor quickly responds, “Not because I wanted to! He wanted my professional opinion on which was better for…I’m not having this conversation.”

Niles chuckles before answering, “The one with the tongue.”

Resisting the urge to toss his phone in the garbage disposal, Connor snipes, “Was there a reason for your phone call or did you just want someone to bear witness to your gross taste in men?”

Niles calls him a few choice names before answering the question, “I wanted an update on your situation. Contrary to most Arkaits, I do care about my family.”

“The fact that you’re the soft one really says something doesn’t it,” Connor smirks into the line.

Niles snorts in derision, “Oh, please. You’re fluffier than cotton candy. Now, tell me. What’s the plan? Because this lying business is going to explode in your face and then I’m going to have to pretend I’m not happily plotting my next relationship while you mope.”

“I take it back. You’re awful,” Connor breaks off to gnaw on his lip. “Fine. Do you have any bright ideas? Because every time I try to come up with a possible explanation, the conversation goes poorly in my head.”

“Well, for starters, talking to yourself isn’t the greatest sign in the world.” Connor tells him to shut up, but Niles continues on unfazed, “Tell him the truth. Apologize. Ask for a clean start. Offer to refund the money, you absolute prat.”

Connor’s mouth works soundlessly, uncertain of which idea to respond to first. After several moments of performing his best goldfish impersonation, Connor sighs, “Those are all pretty good. Better than what I came up with, anyway.”

“Naturally,” Niles replies, voice heavy with smug self-assurance.

Connor spends the next several days arranging dates for his clients as anxiety plagues him. His next meeting with Hank looms on the calendar and he can feel it watching him as he pairs couples with little interest.

After nearly sending Gavin on a date with a client named Chloe, Connor calls it quits for the day, “She would chew him up and spit him out in a heartbeat. He couldn’t possibly handle her.” There was also the fact that Connor was waiting for Gavin to finish his therapy sessions in the coming week before setting him up with Niles. He’d carefully avoided his calls and only responded that he was working with a new program and needed time to calibrate it.

A sharp knock at his office door makes him wonder if Gavin sought him out ahead of schedule to find out what gives. Rising wearily and trying to come up with a suitable excuse for the delay, Connor’s heart leaps up to strangle his brain when he sees Hank standing on the other side.

“Need to talk to you,” his voice is rough and he shoulders part Connor without looking at him.

“Of—of course,” it comes out on a squeak and he does his best to keep the flush from his face.

Hank sits heavily in the chair and Connor wonders if it’s possible to be envious of a piece of furniture. Hank waits until Connor looks him in the eyes to ask the question, “Are you fucking with me?”

Connor manages to stammer out a no, but Hank barrels through him, “So, what then? Am I unmatchable? I’m that fuckin’ awful you gotta send me with—shit, what was his name even?”

Connor blanches as Hank lapses into silence, realizing that is what this must look like from Hank’s perspective. Connor’s reputation as a matchmaker is without equal. Sending Hank on one disaster date after another is tantamount to a slap in the face.

“No, Hank. Please…this isn’t how I wanted to do this at all.” Connor wrings his hands under his desk, trying to find the words to salvage the situation.

“So you’re dumping me, then.” His voice is flat and Connor springs out of his seat as if jet-propelled.

Gripping Hank’s hands, Connor swallows audibly before trying to explain, “I like you.”

What little color Connor had left in him flees his face when he hears what his brain decided was the best response for the situation at hand. Hank rips his hands from Connor’s as if burned, “You what?”

“Oh, god,” Connor runs his hands over his face, feeling like a child when he peeks out over his fingertips, “I like you. It’s inappropriate—you’re a client—and I didn’t—” His phone buzzing at him distracts him. Niles’ name appears on the screen with several bear emojis and question marks. The terror operating Connor’s brain decides to spit out, “And my idiot brother keeps texting me about _bears_.”

If Hank followed any of that, his expression doesn’t show it, “Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I want my money back.”

Connor exhales, “Yes! Of course, I always intended—I’m really sorry, I just—,”

“Save it,” he sounds tired and disappointed, “I’ve tried this before on my own, you know. Thought a professional could—I get it, all right? You don’t gotta lie about it or,” he gestures at Connor’s entire body, “whatever it is you’re doing.”

Connor’s insides seize. His heart screams at his brain to do something, say anything, even if every time he’s spoke so far has made it worse. When he opens his mouth, Hank holds up a hand, “I just want my money.”

Connor deflates as he pulls out a floral checkbook with his company logo embossed on the front. Each stroke of the pen drains him until his arm feels too weak to lift the slip of paper. He stares at the check on the center of his desk until Hank snatches it and stalks out without another word.

After ignoring his texts and calls for several days, Niles breaks into Connor’s home by way of the kitchen window over the sink. Connor watches him mutely from his stretched out position on the couch, nursing a cup of tea that went cold several hours earlier.

“Really, Connor? The window? You’re making me tiptoe over your pathetic excuse of dishware to make sure you’re _alive_.” Connor sets the tea on the table next to him and rolls over to press his face into a decorative pillow.

“Oh, come on,” Niles shakes at his shoulder. “It can’t be that bad.”

Connor turns his head to speak over his shoulder, “He thinks I sent him on all those terrible dates because he’s awful and those monsters were the best I could find.”

“Oh,” Niles pats his arm. “Yes, that’s bad.”

Connor’s face disappears back into the pillow with a groan. “He won’t take my calls,” his voice comes out muffled, but Niles understands him.

“I might be able to help you there,” he says while pulling out his phone. 

Connor bolts upright, “How?”

Handing over his phone, Connor reads through several text messages Niles received from Gavin. His eyebrows unknit as understanding blooms out of confusion, “I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Gavin Reed.”

He knew Hank was an officer, but it never occurred to him he worked in the same precinct as Gavin. In truth, he often forgot Gavin worked with the police at all. His demeanor and lack of social grace made him well-suited to work with dead people who don’t have to listen to him.

Now that Connor has a viable path to repairing the damage he’d caused, he finds himself immobilized by uncertainty. What Connor wants to do and what he knows about Hank are at odds with each other. The next evening finds Niles throwing out ideas while Gavin sits backward in a chair flexing his pecs against the back spokes.

“You’re an animal,” Niles snipes at him. Gavin responds by growling and pawing at the air with mock claws.

Connor sees Niles’ fond expression and grimaces, “You’re both disgusting. Can we get back to the problem?”

In the end, it’s Gavin who hits on a viable solution, “Fuck, man. From what I can tell at work, he likes beer and burgers. It doesn’t have to be roses and chocolates while a damn maraschino band plays in the background.”

“Mariachi,” Niles corrects while squinting at a list of rejected ideas on the table. “Still, he has a point. You’re looking at this from how you’d want someone to apologize. This list has _How To Say Sorry to Connor_ written all over it. You’re the love expert. Use what you know.”

Feeling infinitely stupid, Connor retreats to his room with his laptop while Niles and Gavin pretend like they’re not cuddling on his couch. Pulling up Hank’s file, he finds what he’s looking for within minutes.

Clicking through the forms, Connor finds Hank’s listed preferences. Gavin had been more or less correct. Hank liked simple pleasures, but there was a nuance Gavin had overlooked. Hank’s tastes appear eclectic at first brush, but Connor knows him well enough after all their talks to see the truth behind the obscure facts and data.

Hank misses his youth when life was easier and hadn’t run him ragged with a bitter divorce and custody battle. He likes old TV shows, jazz music, bad 90s RomComs, and video games on consoles that the rising generation hasn’t even heard of before.

Twenty minutes later, Connor comes downstairs to find Gavin curled against a sleeping Niles. Shaking Gavin awake, the man bolts upright as if he hadn’t just been drooling on Niles’ chest, “S’wot?”

“Were those even words?” Connor arches an eyebrow as Gavin blinks sleep from his eyes. “Do you know when Hank’s next shift is?”

Gavin grouses about not being a secretary, but he pulls out his phone and checks a calendar on an app that requires four separate identity verifications, “Yeah. Tomorrow. He gets off at six. He’ll be hungry and grumpy. Whatever you’re planning, I’d suggest bringing food.”

It takes another hour to get Gavin and Niles out of his house. They spend the next twenty minutes whispering on Connor’s stoop until Connor opens his bedroom window and threatens to dump a bucket of water on them if they don’t leave.

Playing catch up on all the work he missed during his self-imposed house arrest, Connor burns through most of the day without worrying about the evening. Once four o’clock rolls around, however, apprehension begins to spread through his veins.

It’s very likely Hank will ignore him or shout at him. The odds of this plan working at all are less than slim to none. Still, he has to try if he’s ever going to live with himself. Standing outside the precinct, Connor leans against Hank’s car wearing what Niles calls his _Look at Me_ jeans.

Hank does stop and look at him when he gets near enough to notice a man resting his butt on the driver-side window of his car. Quickening his pace, he halts when he realizes who it is.

“The fuck you want?” The question comes out harsh and Connor expected it. He knows Hank’s taciturn exterior is a defense against an existence that has treated him unkindly.

Connor holds out a greasy bag boasting _Chicken Feed_ on the front and Hank eyes it warily, “I just want to talk.” He shakes the bag and motions at the beer under his arm, “And have dinner with you…as it was.” Connor realizes fast food and beer isn’t most people’s idea of a stellar apology, but Hank isn’t most people.

 _Please._ Connor wills Hank to take the olive branch, but his expression remains impassive, “Why should I believe you? You took my money, sent me on—holy shit, Connor. Did you even look at those people before you set me up with them? How do I know this isn’t some ploy to save face? That you didn’t dig through my answers to your questions just to build yourself into a…a fucking dream date?”

Connor blanches because he _did_ go digging through Hank’s answers, but for an entirely different purpose. He’s always liked Hank and his funny stories and his preference for paperback books over tablets. He’d re-read Hank’s answers for ideal dates and his heart had fluttered imagining himself there, too.

He can’t say all that, of course; Hank won’t believe it. Instead, he squares his shoulders, ready to prove he’s not just a walking book of facts on Hank—that they _do_ have a lot in common, “Because, at the end of the day, I’m just a man, standing in front of a police officer, asking him to go on a picnic.” He shuffles his feet before adding, “With burgers and beer.”

Blue eyes widen a fraction, “Are you…quoting _Notting Hill_ at me?”

Not done yet, Connor pulls out the big guns. His favorite movie, _Hank’s_ favorite movie, and likely not a publicly known fact, “I know I led you on and I explained myself poorly. I apologized even worse.”

He takes a deep breath, ready to channel his inner Jennifer Grey, “I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, but most of all I’m scared of walking away from here and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.”

Hank stares at him, flummoxed. Connor huffs at his silence, “Hank, I am prepared to quote every romantic drama from the past five decades until you are so hungry and thirsty you have no choice but to drink tepid beer and eat a cold burger with me.”

Seeming to rouse from his trance, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Sorry, I was just—when you started quoting, my brain put you in the dress from _Dirty Dancing_.”

Not missing a beat, Connor hefts the six-pack under his arm into a more comfortable position on his hip, “If necessary, I will find one and wear it.” Hank laughs and Connor’s heart sings at the sound of it.

Although skeptical and understandably upset at Connor’s deception, Hank gives Connor the best he had hoped for: a second chance.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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